


Smashed Timber and Tangled Sails

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [308]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Lighthouses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 06:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Will’s lighthouse sat at the end of a long, hooked inlet that curled out into the sea.





	Smashed Timber and Tangled Sails

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Lighthouse. Prompt from this [generator](https://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

Will’s lighthouse sat at the end of a long, hooked inlet that curled out into the sea. The beaches along this stretch of coast were rocky and unforgiving, unlike their sandier cousins farther south, and even if the nearest house were not five miles away--a distance that felt more like 10 in bad weather--conversing with another person was, for Will, a very rare thing.

This what was he loved most about his lighthouse: the quiet. The distance. The peace.

He was well aware of the irony, of course, that he stood astride a beacon of connection, a harbinger of proximity; a warning, sometimes, or an answer to a prayer: a lonely sigil waving light into the night towards ships that had made hard journeys across unforgiving seas. _ Stay away_, the light said some nights; others: _ You’re home and you’re safe_.

The rooms inside the lighthouse were narrow and chilly and there had been times, when he’d first come to live there, when he’d awakened in the night in a panic certain that he was about to be crushed. But such dreams had eased now, five years hence; it helped, too, that he spent many evenings outside of his tower in a small house just off the beach. It had been used as a supply shed, once, then allowed to go to seed, but one summer Will had reclaimed it; three months of hard work and fevered sweat and the little shed had become more a home. He braved town to order new windows; he’d made putty to seal them and the cracks in the walls with animal bones. And he’d toted some of his treasures down the slick, winding stairs and positioned them on the shelves he’d mounted: books about weather forecasting, some star charts, a small rug that had once been his mother’s. His fishing gear. His favorite knife. His one bottle of wine.

It had not been his intention to do so when he began, but in the end, as fall drew its cloak close, Will found that he spent most of his time in the small house--cooking meals on the beach until he’d finished building a chimney, watching the dogs chase each other through the scrub grass and the sun. He returned to the lighthouse only to complete his daily tasks and, when the moon rose over the water, to lay his head upon his pillow with one ear cocked towards the waves and sleep.

As it grew colder, so too did it grow more difficult to leave the cabin each night and walk the few feet through the wind to the metal door at the foot of his tower. Indeed, as the snows of December descended, Will found himself grumbling along with the dogs as he shooed them from the fire and the time of his departure grew later and later each night.

And then one evening, the inevitable occurred: he grew too cozy in his nest and passed the night in his armchair, his feet stretched out towards the hearth. He awakened in a panic as the first stretch of dawn touched his face and raced towards the beach without his coat, certain he would spot smashed timber and tangled sails, wounded men, even, and bleeding flesh.

But there was nothing. Not a single sign of disaster. The world, it seemed, had gone on about its business unaffected by Will’s shirking of duty. And what had he to show for it, this failure? A racing heart, slowing, slowing, and the sweet ache of a good night’s rest.

One of the dogs bumped against his knee; it was Winston. The dog’s eyes were dark with worry.

“It’s all right,” Will said, stroking Winton’s wind-roughened head and smiling into the slap of cold that rose from the sea. “See? Look, boy. It’s all right. Everything’s fine.”

And so it was, even as he began to spend most nights outside of his tower, the lamp lit at dusk, its eye turned towards the ocean, Will still with one ear cocked towards the sea.

Until one night he was roused by a muffled shout and a fist on his door.

The man who stood beyond it was soaked to the skin. His face was bruised and his fine clothes were torn. There were cuts on his hands and his chin.

“_Aidez-moi, _ ” the man gasped. “_Mon bateau. Les rochers_…”

“Dear Lord. Come in. Come in!” Will dragged the man over the threshold and closed the door against the wind. “You’re frozen.”

The man’s eyes met his, twin embers; in each was caught the firelight. “And you,” he said softly, “are an angel, are you not? I have died in the water on this night and here you are, angel, to keep me from the depths of hell.”

Will flushed. “Nothing so fancy as that. I’m just the lighthouse keeper.”

“Tch. Just nothing.” The man touched his face. “Death reached for me tonight but I find myself in your arms instead. There is something divine about that, yes? What is your name, angel?”

“Will. Will Graham. You?”

“_Je m'appelle _Hannibal.”

Will guided him to the fire and propped the man’s shoulders against the mantle. “Hannibal. Like the elephants?”

“Mmm. Indeed.”

The dogs milled about as Will pulled the man’s wet clothes from his body. Everybody where wary, Will noticed, but not nervous. They kept looking to Winston, Winston kept looking at him. So long as I keep calm, Will thought, tugging at the swollen knots in the man’s shoes, they will, too.

“Here,” he said when Hannibal was naked. “Wrap yourself in this. Are you badly hurt?”

There was a garden of bruises on Hannibal’s ribs. It spilled down his right thigh and pooled there like spilled wine.

Hannibal shivered into the blanket. His teeth were chattering. “I fear my ankle is twisted. There may be a few bruised ribs. But nothing is broken, if that’s what you mean.”

“It was. And I’m glad.”

Will guided Hannibal to the cot and helped him lie down. He tugged the quilts up to Hannibal’s chin. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Brandy would be better.”

“I don’t have any.”

Hannibal’s eyes closed. “That’s quite all right.”

“I have wine. Will that do?”

“Fine, _ange_. Fine.”

When he turned back to the bed, mug in hand, Peach had hopped up and laid herself across Hannibal’s feet. 

“Let it be,” Hannibal said before Will could open his mouth. “Better than a hot water bottle, that one.”

He raised his head when Will cupped his neck and took in two big swallows of wine. His eyes stayed closed. His tongue chased over the stretch of his lips. And then, with a sigh and a turn of his face, Hannibal was asleep.

Will had the strangest desire to reach out and touch him, to see his fingers against the bruise on Hannibal’s cheek. There was a warm stir in his belly, as if he’d drunk the wine, and he tipped it back without thinking, drained the last few sips from the mug. Looked down at his sleeping guest.

“Nice to meet you, Hannibal,” he said softly. “I’m very glad you’re not dead.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's been difficult for me to write lately so if my updates here are spotty, forgive me.


End file.
